Mask and Darkness
by theladyfro
Summary: Things don't go as planned as Jonathan Crane prepares for his very last murder.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own any rights for "Batman", the characters, or the films.

**Mask and Darkness**

Crane kissed the Darkness and the Darkness came; willingly, quietly, vengefully. It came like he knew it would. It came like it was the only thing in the history of the world. He called the Darkness, and the Darkness spoke back. It was like a blanket, covering him, protecting him. It shielded him against the monsters; only, the monsters weren't real. The monsters were the people, the everyday "average" people. The monsters were those women shopping at the mall, looking for something to spend their paycheck on. The monsters were those men who stared at him, too dumb to comprehend what he was saying. The monsters were fake, but to Crane… to Crane, they were very, very real.

He hid from them in the Darkness, pulling over a comfortable Mask. The Mask spoke to him. It told him everything was okay, that everything was fine and ready and that he was unstoppable, invincible even. It told him that his shitty life was over. The Mask had come to save him.

And he went with it. He went with it because he couldn't think of anything better to do. He went with it because it was his only option. He went with it because it _felt good_.

The Mask and the Darkness were like sisters; twins, only moments apart. One found him on the heels of another. They worked together, pushing and pulling him to be what he knew he could become. The Darkness was a tender brunette, the Mask a teasing redhead.

Together they willed him on, one silent while the other worked. They both loved him differently. The Darkness loved him because she could control him and manipulate him into whatever she wanted him to be. She knew his ambition and knew what his future could hold. The Mask loved him because she could see what he was. She knew his darkest secrets; she knew what he had to hide. She loved his insecurities, and he loved that she loved them. She covered him, and protected him. She was his savior. Crane will be indebted to them for the rest of his existence.

The first time he used the sisters he knew they were a perfect fit. The Darkness insured that he would be okay, that he had prepared, that he would be ready to face the monsters. The Mask had protected his soul. She had covered his mind, telling him he had no reason to fear. _You aren't doing anything wrong_, she said. He believed her, trusted her, and trusted her sister just as much.

The monster he killed was a man. An ordinary man, but by far the scariest of them all. He was a teacher, teaching science to pre-teens; Crane imagined that it was a dull existence. But the man was evil; the man was light. Light did not go well with the Darkness, so Crane drugged the man and tied him up in a lonely cornfield.

Crane let the crows pick at the man's eyes as he begged and pleaded to be set free. Crane laughed, once, twice, letting the rhythm tumble over his vocal chords as blood was pouring from the man's eyes. Crane didn't find it funny, but still he laughed.

When the crows had eaten all of the man's will with most of his corneas, Crane let the Mask take control. She worked marvelously, beautifully. Crane wondered which sister he loved more; Darkness loved him more, that much was for certain. She did things for him that the Mask would never dream of doing. But he loved the Mask. She hid him, and for that he would always be grateful.

The next monster he killed was a woman, pregnant, swollen with life. She'd screamed at him, begged for her release, not only for herself, but for her child. Crane scowled at her. She thought she was so _fantastic_, she thought she was so holy, so godly. He could read it on her face through the Darkness that she thought she was doing a service for the world. She wasn't. She thought she was holy. Crane had laughed then, as he opened her shirt and sliced a line down her abdomen. _If she was holy, how did she get in this predicament_, Crane wondered. He drugged her and ripped out her fetus. She was coherent enough to watch as the spawn was brought out and then drowned in a jar of formaldehyde.

She had died like the first, proving that monsters were as mortal as anyone else.

The third was a mailman, the forth a mother of two with a cheating husband and fixation on knitting. The fifth was a priest and the six was one of his nuns. Seven, eight, nine, and ten, were all co-workers, working at the same stupid office for over six years. Seven and eight were secretaries, only too happy to offer Crane copious amounts of sex for their release. Crane, of course, was not interested. Nine and ten were businessmen that Crane suspected were not completely "straight"; he didn't like to pry into the lives of his victims, so he tried not to listen as the two men told each other of their love before their eventual burning.

He'd murdered over a hundred people, in the name of science. Each one had been different, and each one memorable, although some of them around number thirty through forty got confusing from time-to-time.

This was number one-hundred-thirty-seven. It would be his last.

Crane's trusty noose was around his neck. It was long, and lovingly tied to the top of a tree. He sat, three branches up from the ground, feet dangling and the wind wisping through his jacket.

He'd done too many things, to many awful things; things that he couldn't take back, things that he wanted to blot out from his past. It wasn't possible, so he was blotting himself out instead.

The night was cold.

He'd realized that, despite his tendencies, he could be a "real person". He'd watched himself slowly turn into the things he'd feared. He'd watched as he slowly morphed into a monster of nightmarish proportions.

He'd slowly begun to recognize that he had two selves. One was the side that needed the Mask so dearly; it needed the Darkness too, and the sisters were only too happy to oblige. They were his crutch, and his grasp on personal normalcy.

But there was another self. The second of the two was the one that craved human contact. He craved the world of the monsters. This side wanted to live with the monsters and know them, and be them, not ingest their souls by watch their deaths.

Quinzel had brought about the change. She was smart, honest, and bubbly; she was everything that he himself wouldn't allow himself to be. She saw through the Mask and the Darkness. As he grew to her like ivy to a trusted surface, he began to realize she was just another monster, and he was becoming one as well. He hated what she did to him, hated what she represented, but yet he wanted to be what she was. In their monstrosity, they could be together.

But then, she gained a beau- a man who hid behind a thicker mask, a mask of face paint and blood, falsities and gore. Crane watched her fall head over heels for this man. He watched her trip and get stuck inside his trap. He had watched him snare and tempt her. He enticed her so finely that she didn't know she _should_ want to get out. This man was not a monster, not like the others. No, this man was the devil.

Crane had to play nice. To make up for it he'd killed dozens: children, old women, single men, it was all the same. What he used to savor turned dull and disappointing.

He'd begun, ever so slowly, to realized that his life was in shambles. Nothing was right; everything was turned upside down. Crane pondered about killing the clown. He'd threatened him even, but the clown had only laughed at him. The laugh had been high, cackling, and brought shame to Crane.

Death was the only way.

Crane could feel the Darkness around him and could see the Mask pulled down over his face. This was the only way. He would give into the sisters. It would be easier this way.

Crane hoped Quinzel would burn the flowers on his grave. But then again, she probably wouldn't give a fuck; she was a monster after all, and the devil clown was making her into something he'd rather not live to see. She'd be wearing bells on her hat and doing backflips soon enough. He didn't have the heart to tell her that he wished he'd never seen her face.

He'd thought seriously about killing her, but she was a monster that was immortal and could not be slayed by his hands.

Crane jumped.

The noose tightened its hold and began to squeeze the life out of his tortured and vile existence. He cursed himself as the rope sprang and his neck did not snap. He hadn't tied the rope tight enough. He would suffocate to death, trapped in his skin. But what was the difference? He'd been suffocating ever since he'd been born. He had suffocated through his childhood with his grandmother and her tedious ways, he had suffocated through high school, suffocated through medical school, suffocated through his adult life, and now he was suffocating through death.

He felt his legs flailing, felt his hands twisting toward his neck-he couldn't control them. His mind grew fuzzy as the sharpness of his life began to dull. Then he was falling, falling into death, falling into hope, into light, into the arms of Darkness, his Mask only two steps behind. He was falling, and falling, and falling, and falling…

And then he stopped.

Crane slammed into the ground, knees buckling, hands continuing to twist and grab, mouth inhaling even though he'd wanted to deprive himself of air. His head collided with the grass causing his Mask to rub a scrape across his face. He was bleeding underneath the protective layer. He was bleeding, but he was alive.

He blacked out then, the Darkness circling around him, as if apologizing for what it had not been able to provide.

After exactly thirty-seven minutes Crane awoke to find a flat metal piece in the shape of a bat lying next to him. Painted onto it was a red spray-paint smile.

_Fucking devil_. He'd always had a red smile, red like the color of infidelity and betrayal.

A note was taped onto it:

"_Ending your pathetic life so soon, cooky-crow? Well I have bigger plans in mind. It's not going to be so easy, and if you thought it would be, then you're simply daft… No, Crane, I know your secret, and I know you want Harley. Well she's mine, and you can't have her. If you ever try to kill yourself again, I'll kill __**her**__. That's a promise, Scare-Crane! I've got a few friends of mine watching you and your pathetic excuse for a life. Stay away from Harley! If you don't I'll have them put the shrink in the nuthouse. Sound fun? Try me, it'll simply be a BLAST."_

Crane crumpled up the letter, and tossed it aside. _Who did this Devil think he was to order him around?_ If he thought he could control him that easily he had another thing coming.

Wobbly, Cane stood up. _No_, he thought, _Scarecrow doesn't back down this easily_. Little did the Devil know, Scarecrow was coming and he was bringing his Darkness and his Mask with him.


End file.
